CHAPTER 5| The First Sound
I can't stop thinking about his hands.
Not in the way normal people think about hands—admiring them, finding them attractive, whatever.
I think about them because they're a contradiction I can't solve.
The way they pointed at the floor with absolute authority.
The way they cupped under my chin in the garden, waiting patiently for me to spit chocolate into them.
The way they didn't grab me, didn't force me, didn't do any of the things hands usually do when men want to hurt you.
They just... waited.
Like he had all the time in the world for me to come to him.
It's been three days since the study room. Three days since I knelt on his thighs instead of the dirty floor. Three days since I walked away from him with my entire worldview fractured into pieces I don't know how to reassemble.
And in those three days, I haven't seen him once.
Not in the quad. Not in the library. Not anywhere.
It's like he's vanished completely, and the absence is somehow worse than his presence. Because when he was there, I knew what I was dealing with. I could prepare. I could plan my routes and my defenses and maintain the illusion of control.
But now? Now I'm just waiting. Constantly on edge. Constantly wondering when he'll appear next and what he'll do when he does.
He's living in my head rent-free, and I hate it.
I hate that I catch myself looking for him in crowds.
I hate that when I'm alone in the stacks, I keep glancing around corners expecting to see him watching me.
I hate that I've started sleeping with my hearing aids in—something I never do because it's uncomfortable and the battery life is shit—just in case he appears in my room somehow and I need to know he's there.
I hate that he's made me paranoid in new and inventive ways.
But most of all, I hate that I don't even know who he is.
I don't know his name. Don't know what family he comes from. Don't know anything beyond the fact that he's rich and European and has eyes like a frozen lake and calls me butterfly for reasons I don't understand.
And that ignorance is driving me insane.
So tonight, after my library shift ends and I'm supposed to be heading back to my dorm, I do something I've never done before.
I go looking for information.
Mrs. Chen is gone for the night, which means I have access to the library's administrative computer without anyone asking questions.
I shouldn't be doing this. It's probably against multiple policies.
But I also can't spend another night lying awake wondering what kind of monster has decided I'm his new fixation.
I need to know what I'm dealing with.
The student database requires a login, but Mrs. Chen never logs out of her computer—just locks the screen with a password I watched her type in about forty times over the last two months. Muscle memory is predictable. Four digits. Always the same pattern.
It takes me three tries to get it right: 1947. The year the library was built.
The screen unlocks.
I pull up the student directory and realize immediately that I don't have enough information. I don't know his last name. Don't know his year. Don't even know what he's studying.
All I have is a face and an accent and the word "butterfly" in French.
I try searching for "French students" but get a list of forty-seven names. Too many to go through individually.
I try "European students" and get over two hundred results.
Fuck.
I sit back in Mrs. Chen's chair, staring at the screen, trying to think. There has to be something else. Some other piece of information I can use to narrow this down.
And then I remember: the boys in the mud.
That first night, when I saw him by the fountain, he had three students on their knees in front of him. They were terrified. Completely undone by whatever he'd said to them.
That means he has a reputation. That means people know who he is. That means if I can find those boys and figure out what they were so afraid of, I can figure out who he is.
But I don't know who those boys were either.
I'm trapped in a circle of not-knowing, and it's making my skin crawl with frustration.
I'm about to give up—just close the database and accept that I'm going to stay ignorant—when I see it.
A folder on Mrs. Chen's desktop labeled "Housing Concerns - Confidential."
I shouldn't open it. It's none of my business. It's probably student information that I have no right to access.
But I'm already breaking rules tonight, so what's one more?
I click the folder. Inside are a dozen Word documents, each labeled with a date. I open the most recent one: October 28th. Three days ago.
It's an incident report.
Student: Madison Cooper
Issue: Emergency withdrawal from housing, citing "personal safety concerns" but refusing to elaborate.
Student left campus within 24 hours of submitting withdrawal paperwork.
No forwarding information provided. Father contacted administration demanding records be sealed.
Request granted pending legal review.
Madison. My former roommate who disappeared without a word.
My stomach drops.
I scroll down to the next document. October 23rd.
Students: James Chen, Marcus Whitley, David Price
Issue: Found by campus security kneeling in mud near north fountain at 11:47 PM.
All three students extremely distressed but refusing to explain circumstances.
Security noted students were "terrified" and kept repeating "he said we had to stay until he released us.
" When pressed for identity of "he," all three students became uncommunicative.
Matter dropped due to lack of complaint.
Those are the boys. The ones I saw that first night.
And they were so afraid of him they wouldn't even tell security his name.
What kind of person has that much power over other students?
I keep scrolling. October 19th. October 15th. Going back further.
There are dozens of reports. Students withdrawing suddenly. Incidents of "unexplained distress." References to a student who "seems to be connected to multiple concerning events but never directly implicated."
And then, finally, I find it.
October 2nd. An email chain between Mrs. Chen and the Dean of Students.
Subject: European Transfer Student - Accommodations
Dean Roberts,
Per your request, I have arranged for the new transfer student from France to have unrestricted access to the rare books collection.
I understand his family made a substantial donation to the library renovation fund.
However, I must note that giving a first-year student this level of access is highly irregular.
His name is Nikolai de Rivel. I have attached his student profile per your request.
Nikolai de Rivel.
I click the attachment with shaking hands.
A photo loads first. And even though I knew it would be him, seeing his face on an official document makes something twist in my chest. Those emerald green eyes stare out from the screen with the same empty intensity they have in person.
That perfectly handsome face that looks like it was carved by someone who understood aesthetics but not humanity.
Below the photo:
Name: Nikolai Lucien de Rivel
Age: 19
Origin: Paris, France
Family: De Rivel Syndicate (paternal), Valentini Empire (maternal)
Legacy Status: Tier 1 - Highest Priority
Major: International Relations / Finance
Languages: French (native), English (fluent), Italian (fluent), German (conversational)
Notes: Family donation of $15 million to library renovation fund.
Father is Lucifer de Rivel, head of European intelligence operations.
Mother is Ana Moreau de Rivel, connected to Valentini crime family.
Student has diplomatic immunity status. Any disciplinary issues must be cleared through State Department before action can be taken.
I read it three times.
The words don't change.
Crime family. Intelligence operations. Diplomatic immunity. Fifteen million dollars.
He's not just some rich legacy student.
He's the heir to two of the most powerful criminal organizations in Europe.
His father is literally named Lucifer.
And he has diplomatic immunity, which means even if he does something illegal, the university can't touch him without federal government approval.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely control the mouse.
I do something stupid then. Something I know I shouldn't do but can't stop myself from doing.
I open a browser and search for "De Rivel Syndicate."
The results are... extensive.
News articles in French and English about "alleged criminal operations.
" Wikipedia pages that have been edited so many times they're barely coherent.
Academic papers about organized crime in Europe that mention the de Rivel family as "one of the most sophisticated intelligence networks in the modern underworld. "
There are photos too. Grainy surveillance shots of men in expensive suits. Crime scene photos with faces blurred out. And one—just one—clear photograph from what looks like a society event.
A man who must be his father. Tall, dark-haired, with the same sharp features Nikolai has.
He's standing with his arm around a woman who looks far too kind to be part of this world—petite, dark-haired, with warm eyes and a genuine smile.
She's holding a little boy who can't be more than seven or eight years old.
The boy has Nikolai's eyes.
I click on the article attached to the photo. It's from twelve years ago, some puff piece about European aristocracy attending a charity gala. The caption reads: Lucifer de Rivel and wife Ana Moreau de Rivel with son Nikolai at the Valentini Foundation Gala, Rome.
He looks almost normal in the photo. Almost human. A little boy holding his mother's hand and looking at the camera with something that might be curiosity or might be boredom or might be the first seeds of whatever he became.
I close the browser. Close all the documents. Log out of Mrs. Chen's computer and wipe my search history with hands that won't stop shaking.
Nikolai de Rivel.
Son of a criminal mastermind and a woman who somehow survived falling in love with one.
Heir to two empires built on violence and information and power.
A boy—no, a man—who has diplomatic immunity and fifteen million dollars in donation money ensuring the university will look the other way no matter what he does.
And he's decided that I'm interesting.
I'm so fucked.
I leave the library in a daze, my mind spinning with information I wish I didn't have. Because knowing who he is doesn't help me. It just confirms what I already suspected: he's not someone I can fight. Not someone I can report. Not someone I can escape.
He's untouchable.
And I'm nobody.
The walk back to my dorm feels longer than usual. The campus is quiet—most students are either studying in their rooms or out at parties. I'm alone on the paths, surrounded by old buildings and older trees and the kind of darkness that makes you hyperaware of every sound.
My hearing aids pick up the wind rustling leaves. My own footsteps on pavement. The distant bass thump of music from one of the fraternity houses.
But not the footsteps behind me until they're close.
Too close.
I spin around, my heart jumping into my throat, and see—
Carter Morrison.
He's in my Statistics class. Sits three rows behind me. Failed the last two exams and keeps trying to copy off other people's work. I've avoided making eye contact with him all semester because he has that look—the one that says he thinks women owe him something just for existing near him.
And now he's here, on a dark path, way too close to me.
He's smiling. But it's not a friendly smile.
"Leah, right?" His lips move clearly enough that I can read them. "From Statistics?"
I take a step back. He takes a step forward.
"I've been trying to talk to you all semester," he continues, still smiling that unpleasant smile. "But you always rush out of class before I can catch you."
I sign quickly: I have to go. Excuse me.
"Nah, I don't think so." He reaches out fast—faster than I can react—and his hand clamps around my wrist.
The world tilts.
Not metaphorically. Literally. My vision tunnels. My hearing aids fill with white noise. My chest constricts so tight I can't breathe.
I'm thirteen years old again. Someone is grabbing me. Someone is hurting me. Someone is—
"You're gonna help me with the homework," Carter is saying, his grip tightening until I can feel my bones grinding together. "You're gonna give me your notes. You're gonna make sure I pass this class. Because if you don't—"
I'm not listening anymore. I can't listen. Because all I can feel is his hand on my wrist and all I can think is touch, unwanted touch, someone is touching me, someone is hurting me, I need to get away but I can't move, I'm frozen, I'm trapped, I'm going to die—
I yank backward with all my strength. My wrist stays locked in his grip. Pain shoots up my arm.
"Where do you think you're going?" Carter's smile drops into something uglier. Something mean. "I'm talking to you, deaf girl. Don't be rude."
I open my mouth to scream. Nothing comes out.
Because I haven't used my voice in five years. Because trauma took it from me the same day it took everything else. Because I'm broken in ways that make me unable to even defend myself verbally.
Carter steps closer, his free hand reaching for my other arm, and I know—I know—this is going to get so much worse if I don't do something right now.
I look past him, desperate for help, for anyone, for—
And I see him.
Nikolai.
He's standing maybe twenty feet away, half-hidden in the shadows of a building. His hands are in his pockets. His posture is relaxed, casual, like he's just taking an evening stroll.
But his eyes.
His eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes Carter's aggression look like child's play.
He tilts his head slightly. Waiting.
Not moving to help. Not intervening. Just watching.
Watching to see what I'll do.
Watching to see if I'll ask.
Carter's grip tightens further. I feel something in my wrist pop. Pain explodes up my arm, sharp and nauseating.
"I asked you a question," Carter hisses, his face inches from mine now. "Are you gonna help me or not?"
I look back at Nikolai. He hasn't moved. Still just standing there with his hands in his pockets and that terrible, patient expression.
He's not going to help unless I ask.
He's going to let Carter hurt me unless I give him what he wants.
Unless I acknowledge him. Unless I prove that I need him.
Unless I break.
Carter's hand moves to my shoulder, pushing me backward toward the building.
My mind is screaming at me to fight, to run, to do something, but my body won't cooperate.
The panic has locked up every muscle. I'm trapped inside my own trauma response while Carter forces me step by step toward a darker, more secluded area where no one will see—
My throat is so tight. The words are trapped behind years of protective silence. Behind the wall I built to keep myself safe, to keep from giving anything of myself to a world that only takes.
But Carter is touching me.
And Nikolai is watching.
And I have to choose which is worse.
I force my lips apart. Force air up through my constricted throat. Force the sound out even though it feels like broken glass.
"Nikolai."
It comes out wrong. Raspy and broken and barely audible. My vocal cords don't work right anymore—disuse and trauma have made them atrophy into something that can barely produce sound.
But it's enough.
The effect is instantaneous.
Nikolai's entire body changes. The casual posture drops. The patient waiting evaporates. Something feral and violent floods into his expression—something that was always there but carefully hidden under layers of civility.
He moves.
Not fast. Deliberately. Like a predator that's been given permission to strike.
Carter doesn't even see him coming until it's too late.
Nikolai's hand closes around the wrist that's gripping me—the one that's been grinding my bones together and leaving bruises that will last for weeks. His other hand lands on Carter's shoulder.
And then he twists.
The sound is sickening. A wet crack followed by a scream so loud I can hear it even through my malfunctioning hearing aids.
Carter releases me instantly, stumbling backward, clutching his arm. But Nikolai doesn't let go.
He twists again.
This time, bone doesn't just crack. It breaks completely. The jagged end tears through Carter's skin, white and red and completely exposed to the night air.
Carter collapses. He's screaming words I can't make out, his face twisted in agony, his shattered arm leaking blood onto the pavement in quantities that don't seem possible.
Nikolai stands over him, his perfectly expensive clothes splattered with arterial spray, his expression completely calm.
No anger. No satisfaction. No emotion at all.
Just that same clinical interest he always has, like he's observing something mildly interesting.
He looks down at Carter—who's now sobbing and trying to crawl away with one functioning arm—and says something. His lips move clearly, and even though I'm shaking too hard to fully process what I'm seeing, I can read them:
"If you touch her again, I will remove your hands entirely. Do you understand?"
Carter nods frantically, still sobbing.
Nikolai steps over him like he's nothing more than an obstacle in the path. Steps over the pool of blood spreading across the pavement. Steps directly toward me with that same deliberate, patient walk.
I should run. I should be terrified. I should be horrified by what I just witnessed.
But I'm frozen. Still locked in that trauma response that Carter triggered, my wrist throbbing where he grabbed me, my throat raw from forcing out that broken whisper.
Nikolai stops maybe a foot away from me. Close enough that I can see the blood spatter on his collar. Close enough that I can see how his eyes have gone from empty to something worse—something hungry and possessive and completely unhinged.
He reaches for my wrist—the one Carter brutalized—and I flinch violently.
He freezes mid-reach. Then, very slowly, very carefully, he lowers his hand.
Instead, he just looks at me. Studies me. Takes in every detail of my face like he's cataloging my fear.
Then his lips move, forming words I can barely focus on through the shock:
"You said my name."
It's not a question. It's a statement. An observation delivered with the kind of intensity that makes it clear this moment means something to him. Something significant.
I can't respond. My throat is too damaged. My voice is gone again, retreated back behind the walls where it's been hiding for five years.
But he doesn't seem to need a response.
He just keeps staring at me with those feral, hungry eyes.
"You finally said my name," he repeats, and this time there's something in his expression that might be satisfaction or might be triumph or might be the closest thing he can experience to genuine emotion.
Behind him, Carter is still sobbing and bleeding. The pool is spreading. Someone is going to find him soon. Someone is going to call campus security. Someone is going to ask questions.
But Nikolai doesn't seem concerned. He just pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket—a different one than the one I spat chocolate into, thank God—and calmly wipes the blood spatter from his hands.